Silent Exchange
by Audrey Eliot
Summary: Sherlock's stolen something, but then, so has John...mild Slash and mention of *that* jumper...be warned.
1. In London

**So...first Sherlock/John maybe sort of. Oh dear...**

**Very light slash if you look very, very hard...**

**Please if you read this, review. For my last story (Office Romance) I got loads of subscribers when it's only a oneshot. And everyone loves the feeling of a review :) **

**I own ZILCH. Sadly...**

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Through the opened window, he could hear the heavy rain, moving like a gargantuan cloth over London, rustling the leaves and muting the traffic as it did so. The dark curtains with their tulle innards, flapped slightly as the wind caught on the window.

He sighed. Typical English summer. CLICK. The kettle had boiled, and he found he was unwillingly dragging himself across the bleak flat; there was no-one else to make his coffee after all.

Silence. He usually loved the thing. Even at home as well as work. He often shunned people for even breathing if it disturbed him. Not since John had moved in. Properly. And now he had moved out, even if only for a few days whilst visiting Clara of all people.

Ten to ten. John would come down from his room now and examine the fridge. However, not once had he taken something out at this time of night. Then, he would walk around the left side of the table to his armchair, where he would sit for about ten minutes, fingers placed on his temples, and do nothing.

Goodness. What was the point of him noticing _that? _It wasn't important, just someone doing nothing! He sighed yet another sigh. "How many sugars? Ah yes, two". It'd been so long since he'd made his own coffee he'd forgotten how he takes it.

Oh screw the coffee, that's not the drug he needed right now. For behind the bookcase, was a jumper the colour of porridge and not unlike in texture, it smelt of wood shavings, musk, tea and spice; all the things he associated with his flatmate. No. Friend?

"Only two more days Sherlock. Two days."

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**Next Chapter...?**


	2. In a Flat

**Part two! Weeeeeeeeee :) Many thanks to reviewers and subscribers! If you have any suggestions/requests for future or current stories please let me know via email...ta.**

**Please let me know what you think of this chapter!**

**I own nothing...still.**

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Clara was much more of a sister than Harry had ever been. Kind, caring, womanly. She was the sort of person whom you imagined would cook muffins on you're birthday, offer out affectionate hugs and giggle hysterically at everything. Her temporary flat however, was cold and quite scarce in comparison his residence at 221B, and indeed Clara's personality. At home, useless yet sentimental crap littered everywhere in sight.

"Just popping upstairs," he'd said.

"There isn't one." was the reply.

"This isn't Baker Street" he'd reminded himself. After an awkward silence he'd excused himself from the empty living room (Clara was busy cooking tea) and made his way to the spare room. He took out his suitcase and rooted to the very bottom, where a purple shirt was lying, crumpled.

It smelt like rosin, coffee, freshly cut grass, mint and parchment; all the things he associated with his flatmate. No. Friend?

"Only one more day John. One day."

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**More?**


	3. In an Armchair

**Howdy :) I am sooo sorry for not updating! No excuse really so I won't bother. **

**The usual...I don't own *wails***

**Here you go...**

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He arrived home at 9.30pm after a long train journey to King's Cross. He had expected the worst; severed body parts, horrific smells and ruined wallpaper. However, once through the threshold, John was welcomed by the smell of bacon, the sound of oil, sizzling in the pan and of all things….music. Not a violin, but the radio. Slow, deep and soulful. He turned the corner at the top of the stairs, went through the living room and stood at the opening into the kitchen.

His flatmate was stood, leaning over the hob, his unruly hair flopping to cover his eyes. He turned round and locked his eyes on John.

'I didn't here you come in,' he said phlegmatically.

'Really?'

'No. I did.'

Silence followed. Neither of them could think of what to say, not even Sherlock. John glanced around the room trying to fins something to spark a conversation. Then his eyes landed on a box of oats by the microwave.

'By the way,' he began 'Have you seen my cream jumper?'

Sherlock froze, even though he was practically in that state already. His eyes darted to the bookcase and back to John.

'Where is it.' It was more of an order than a question. When he received no reply, John walked back into the living room…and to the bookcase; he'd learnt a lot whilst living with Sherlock.

There, tucked in between the bookcase and the alcove wall was a jumper, the colour of porridge and not unlike in texture. He held it up. Sherlock stared. He'd never been found out. Nor had he been so unsure of himself. Ever.

That was when John unzipped his bulky coat to reveal a purple shirt, lying against his broad chest. He took it out slowly, as if he may injure it, and tossed it onto his armchair with the two mangled and draped together.

Each man took a step forward, but yet again, Sherlock froze. John however, continued surely until he was in front of Sherlock.

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**Dun dun DUUUUUUUN! Suggestions for an ending would be nice :) Reviews are a *must***

**Love.**


	4. In a Spot of Bother

**Please forgive me for the ENORMOUS delay and for making a rubbish chapter. Please...**

**I own nothing..jolly on and read!**

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They stood now perhaps a foot apart. And that was all; just standing. Sherlock gave John a look as if he'd made the most pointless suggestion, to which John raised his eyebrows.

"You really ought to get a new jumper John," Sherlock began with the same, stony expression he always wore.

"One for both of us?"

Sherlock seemed not to care for this remark, but after a moments pause, he sniggered. But only a little.

"Welcome home,"

"Thank you," the pair smiled faintly and soon the situation became particularly awkward.

John grinned. Sherlock looked puzzled.

Suddenly John sprang upon Sherlock, wrapping his arms about the other, and shaking about it a bit, a sort of jumping perhaps. Utterly bemused, Sherlock shook off his companion and looked positively horrified.

"What on earth was that for!"

"For breaking the tension."

Sherlock nodded as he mulled over this idea. As quickly as Sherlock's genius had comprehended the idea, he darted towards John, and had given him a small kiss upon his lips. John looked somewhat questioning, very surprised look.

Sherlock ran his hands through his unruly calmly.

"I was merely breaking the tension."

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**Please may I have suggestions for other stories? I have an unbelievably bad case of writer's block. Thankies! **


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